


Blood Alone Remains

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Cutting, Dom Stiles, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sub Jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: It had been Jackson’s idea, all of this. The thought would never have occurred to Stiles otherwise, to take a knife to someone he loved. Stiles had always had a certain aversion to blood, before, and even more so after the Nogitsune. He didn’t faint at the sight of it anymore; he’d seen too much of it. His hands were drenched with it, the blood of the dozens of people the Nogitsune had slaughtered while wearing his face.Scott’sblood from the sword twisted into his gut.But this? This was so different.It was a strangely gentle act. There was no force here, no violence. Only Jackson shuddering beneath him, arching up, begging wordlessly for more because he trusted Stiles to give him just enough. He trusted Stiles to show restraint, to keep him safe. To take care of him in this unique way that no one else could.No one had ever trusted him this much before.





	Blood Alone Remains

**Author's Note:**

> well, this right here is a _drastic_ departure from my usual fare, isn't it? lmao, it was actually really fun and satisfying to write though. i saw that Stackson Week's day 4 theme was kink and for some reason, this was the first thing that popped into my head, and it lodged pretty firmly and demanded to be written cuz it just seemed to work for them. on an emotional level, i think it works and does them both some good.
> 
> that being said. **please take care of yourself!** this is a kink that can be extremely triggering to a lot of people, so please please please do not read this if you think it might be detrimental to your mental health in any way! even if in the context of the fic, i tried very hard not to present it as self-harm or as having those same motivations, it is still cutting and bleeding for emotional release. be gentle with yourself and proceed with extreme caution.  <3
> 
> (ps. title is from a Marie Antoinette quote, of all things, that goes "My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long." i feel like here, in taking Jackson's blood, Stiles is taking both of their suffering with it. idk, it seemed to fit, in a way. titling is hard, lol.)

The hilt of the knife was warm in Stiles’ hand. It always surprised him how quickly it warmed to his skin, how soon it felt like little more than an extension of his arm instead of a foreign object. The hard plastic grip was comfortable now, molded to his palm like it belonged there, and maybe it did. It certainly found its way there often enough.

Beneath him Jackson lay still, chest bare and exposed, head tilted back and long neck on display. His breath was coming fast and his heartbeat was too, a rabid tattoo caught beneath Stiles’ other hand. When Stiles leaned forward to meet them, his eyes were glassy and distant, already subsumed by the anticipation, that strange mixture of fear and excitement that filled the moment before blade touched skin.

The first contact made Jackson flinch. His belly leapt with his sharp inhale, but the touch was so light, so fleeting, that the edge didn’t catch. Stiles pulled away and brought the knife back down on Jackson’s chest instead, dragging the flat of the blade over the skin.

Jackson shuddered.

God, it was gorgeous. All laid out like this, completely at Stiles’ mercy. Offering himself up as a canvas for Stiles to do with as he pleased. So beautifully submissive.

He moved the hand pinning Jackson down to run through his hair instead. Jackson leaned into the touch with a whine. He was long past words and Stiles hadn’t even made the first cut yet.

It had been Jackson’s idea, all of this. The thought would never have occurred to Stiles otherwise, to take a knife to someone he loved. Stiles had always had a certain aversion to blood, before, and even more so after the Nogitsune. He didn’t faint at the sight of it anymore; he’d seen too much of it. His hands were drenched with it, the blood of the dozens of people the Nogitsune had slaughtered while wearing his face.  _ Scott’s _ blood from the sword twisted into his gut.

But this? This was so different.

The sharp point of the knife made a divot in Jackson’s skin. It took a little more force to make the skin give way, to part around the cold metal and release a little bead of warm red. Stiles swiped the flat of the blade through it, smearing the blood across the pale expanse of Jackson’s ribs. It didn’t go far, but then it was only a prick. There would be plenty more later. 

Still, the contrast was startling in the best way.

Jackson was whining again, squirming. Stiles brushed the hair off his face with another soothing noise. He leaned in to press a light kiss to Jackson’s lips.

“Shh, baby, you’re okay,” he murmured. “Look at me, sweetheart. Can you do that? Can you give me your color?”

It was a second or two before Jackson could pull himself up enough to meet Stiles’ eyes and it took a few swallows to make his voice work, but he finally managed to say, “Green. Green, please.”

Stiles smiled and gave him another kiss. Jackson tried to chase after it, but he stayed put when Stiles pushed him back down to the bed.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Stiles told him. “So good for me. Now you just let me take care of you.”

Jackson nodded and let his eyes fall closed again, waiting so patiently for Stiles to give him what he needed.

_ Beautiful. _

Honestly, Stiles wasn’t clear on what exactly Jackson got out of this. He understood the submission, on a more general level, the act of giving up control to someone else and feeling safe and cherished and cared for in return. But  _ this, _ the knives and the blood, was a little more obscure. All Stiles knew was that it did something to Jackson, made him pliant and needy and a little bit high. He guessed it had something to do with endorphins, the rush made more intense by the fact that the cuts healed in minutes.

Then there was the healing itself. That was a goddamn miracle. Seeing flesh split open under his knife and then watching as it knit itself back together until there was nothing left but a smear of red on smooth, perfect, unmarred skin—there was nothing like it. Sometimes Jackson would sit up to watch too, eyes glued to his own thigh or forearm, holding his breath until the process was over and then gasping like he’d just broken the surface for the first time.

So no, Stiles had no real idea of what was going on in Jackson’s head at times like this, when he was laid out and panting with it, so perfectly ready to let Stiles take and take and take; Jackson had never been able to articulate it fully. But he got  _ something _ from it, something that he’d craved enough to actually ask for it, to put a knife in his boyfriend’s hand and  _ ask _ to be cut.

Admittedly, Stiles had been concerned at first, but Jackson had said he had no urge to do it himself. It wasn’t about that. It was about  _ this, _ the two of them close and intimate, Jackson giving up every shred of control and handing it over to Stiles. It was trust and care and that strange pain-pleasure that left Jackson hard and wanting when they were done.

It didn’t make sense. Logically, it didn’t, but it didn’t have to.

It didn’t make sense for Stiles to love this either, not after everything he had been through. Everything he had been made to do. Experience said that drawing blood was violence, it was force, it was pain and suffering and chaos. When Jackson had first handed him that knife—the very knife he held against Jackson’s quivering stomach now, skating the tip over the twitching muscle while they both held their breath—that had been all Stiles had been able to think of.

He’d nearly said no. He  _ would’ve  _ said no if not for how earnestly Jackson had asked for it.

When they had sat down together for their first attempt, Stiles had been utterly convinced that some buried remnant of the Nogitsune’s influence would rise up and take him over. That he would feel that deep, sucking, primordial ecstasy of the Nogitsune feeding on the agony of dying men. That it would flip a switch inside him and make him into that monster again.

But he hadn’t felt that. His hands had shook almost too much to hold the knife steady, but that first cut had been nothing short of anticlimactic. And watching it heal again, watching  _ Jackson _ watch it heal with his face slack from some unnameable emotion— It had loosened something in his chest, some darkness that had been holding his lungs hostage.

He had put the knife down then, wrapped Jackson in his arms, and cried from relief that he felt no urge to pick the blade up again.

That hadn’t changed. He didn’t  _ need _ this, not like Jackson seemed to. Even now, there was no drive like the Nogitsune had possessed, that desperate hunger to cause pain. Every time Stiles held this knife in his hand, it was a reminder that that wasn’t him, that that feeling had  _ never _ been him.

This right here was him: drawing the blade down Jackson’s side with just enough pressure to live a thin line of red in its wake. It was a strangely gentle act. There was no force here, no violence. Only Jackson shuddering beneath him, arching up, begging wordlessly for more because he trusted Stiles to give him just enough. He trusted Stiles to show restraint, to keep him safe. To take care of him in this unique way that no one else could.

No one had ever trusted him this much before.

It was  _ intoxicating. _

Stiles trailed kisses down Jackson’s chest, stopping occasionally to bring the knife down. It was sharp and every cut was easy and clean, just a quick press, a flick of the wrist. Red welled up around the metal to drip down the curve of his ribs. Sometimes Stiles caught it on a fingertip and dragged it up again, painting patterns that led back to the sternum. Other times he brought the bloody fingertip to Jackson’s mouth.

Jackson was always ready and willing to suck it clean, lips plush, tongue hot and eager. His eyelids fluttered open when Stiles took the finger away; his pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left around them. He whimpered when Stiles kissed him and opened himself up to share the faint copper tang.

Stiles sat back on his heels to take in the full picture before him. Jackson look positively blissed out, flying high and loving every second of it. His chest and stomach were crisscrossed with bloody cuts like red hash marks marching their way across his body. Against his thigh, his cock lay wet and flushed and neglected, waiting for the time when one of them would take pity and touch.

Not yet, though.

Everything so far had been drips and dribbles, no more than a few drops at a time, and when Stiles dragged his free hand through the blood left behind, the skin beneath was already smooth and healed over. Time for something that would last a little longer.

He shifted to straddle Jackson’s thighs, pinning Jackson down with his weight and giving him a better angle. His own cock hung down, just as hard and just as ignored for now, to rest in the crease of Jackson’s hip. With a slow breath, Stiles lifted the knife again, forefinger along the spine of it to give him tighter control, and brought it down just below the hollow where Jackson’s collarbones met.

This cut required a little more push behind it, but not too much. Stiles was careful not to go too deep; even with the advanced werewolf healing, he wasn’t looking to do too much damage. Just enough for a good steady welling of blood, a sheet of hot liquid to seep out and chase across pale skin like the tide of the Red Sea. It poured across his other hand, braced against Jackson’s side for balance, and it felt like a caress.

Jackson keened, high and long, the noise caught in his throat as if he were fighting back a real howl. His back bowed up off the bed in a graceful arc, head pressed back into the pillow, tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

Stiles shushed him with the last of the air in his lungs, breathless at the sight before him. His hands were steady though as he ran them over Jackson’s sides, dragging through the mess to gentle him, reassure him, remind him that Stiles was still there watching over him. Anchoring him to keep him from flying away entirely.

Even with a slice this size, it didn’t take more than a minute or two for the bleeding to slow, the flow of it turning sluggish and weak. Jackson had turned his face into the pillow, gasping for air, but he surfaced when Stiles tapped a bloody finger against his cheek. Their kiss barely qualified as such; it was more of a press of open mouths, just a sharing of breath as Stiles ran gentle fingers over the abused flesh. The edges of the wound were beginning to close already.

Before it could finish, before the last of the damage could be undone like it had never been, Stiles trailed his free hand down. It found Jackson’s cock hard as ever. Blood didn’t make the best lube, honestly, but it was still fresh enough to ease the way, slick and hot. Jackson bucked into the touch and gasped out his name. He said it again, and again, as Stiles picked up the pace, racing the healing until Jackson was spilling over his fist with a sob just as the last of the wound faded away.

Stiles swallowed Jackson’s cry and stroked him through it, only taking himself in hand when he’d wrung every drop he could out of Jackson. His own release was fast and hard and the splash of white across the red wash of Jackson’s stomach brought its own shiver of pleasure.

They breathed together in the aftermath, just lay there, limp and sated, and  _ breathed. _ By the time Stiles had come down enough to move his limbs, the blood painted across Jackson’s skin had gone cool and tacky. Jackson didn’t seem to mind, but Jackson wasn’t fully present yet either. His eyes were closed, chest still heaving, but there was a hint of a smile on his kiss-bruised lips and he hummed an acknowledgement when Stiles called his name.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, and he chuckled when Jackson made a face. “I know, I know. You were so good for me, baby, but you know you don’t actually want to sleep like this.”

Jackson didn’t protest again, so Stiles rallied his remaining energy and leaned off the bed to retrieve the rags and bowl. The water was pleasantly warm as he rinsed his hands, bloody red dissolving into dull pink. The blood came off the blade just as easily to leave it shiny and pristine once more.

Stiles laid it aside with care.

Jackson let Stiles wipe him down, shifting obediently when Stiles nudged him one way or the other. With each swath of pink skin revealed, whole and unmarred, Stiles’ heart beat a little easier. All their sins, all the damage wrought on and by them—gone. Healed. Washed away.

Stiles rinsed the last few drops of blood from the hollow of Jackson’s throat and left a kiss in its place. Jackson, half asleep if not more, made a soft noise of encouragement. With a huff of laughter, Stiles obliged him, leaving more kisses in a trail up his neck, across his jaw, and finally to his mouth.

“Up,” he said against Jackson’s lips.

With Jackson still a little spacey and lacking his usual grace, it took some doing to get a blanket around his shoulders (and the bloody towels out from underneath him), but they managed it. Stiles laid himself down at Jackson’s back, arms wrapped tight around his middle and nose buried in the soft space just behind his ear. It was warm and cozy and close and perfect, and Stiles was pretty sure Jackson was already asleep.

On the bedside table, the knife glinted innocently in the light cast from the lamp beside it. As he reached past to turn the lamp off, Stiles sent it a silent thought of gratitude. Then he settled in with his sated boyfriend in his arms and let sleep take him with a smile on his face.


End file.
